The Chinese Takeout (5 page)

Then it was Corbishley’s turn. I’ve no idea what
his background was, but he was a pedant, in the pejorative sense. The first point he made was the one Nick had put to me earlier – that in law there was no such thing as sanctuary, the concept having been abolished by Henry VIII. Actually, I’d have said that was pretty irrefutable, and if only he’d had the sense to shut up he’d have had my reluctant vote. But he got more and more involved with detail.

‘Now, technically the young man should hold the knocker on the front door to claim – you may have seen those still extant at Durham and on St Gregory’s, Norwich. Or he should sit not in the sanctuary chair, but a frith-stool.’

‘What’s one of those?’ Tim put in, sounding genuinely interested.

‘St Jude’s doesn’t have one so you don’t need to know,’ Malins snapped. ‘Furthermore, if you do want to keep him on church land, he doesn’t have to stay within the church itself. He’s allowed to roam the precincts.’

I thought I sniffed a bit of slick Internet research here.

‘You mean he’s free to walk round the graveyard – to get some fresh air? Excellent,’ Tim said.

‘In fact, there’s no reason for him to be in the church at all,’ Corbishley declared, ‘where we really have so few facilities—’

‘Fewer than in the graveyard?’ Andy asked dryly.

‘We could rig up a perfectly capacious tent. Or maybe get a caravan—’

‘— Through the lychgate? My dear sir, that really would be like trying to get a camel through the eye of a needle,’ Andy drawled, in a tone designed to irritate the socks off anyone unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t follow your logic. Why is it acceptable to protect Tang outside, in the cold and the wet, but not inside, in the cold and the dry?’

‘It may have escaped your notice, Dean, that this is an historic building, untouched for centuries. It should be preserved.’

Untouched
? What about all the improvements perpetrated by the Victorians? I wanted to yell my objection but Andy was already there.

‘Like the blood and custard tiles in the sanctuary itself? Come, Mr Malins, you know as well as I do that they’re an abomination in the face of – if not the Lord, then at least any decent church architect. You must do better than that.’

‘I don’t need to. As church wardens, Mr Corbishley and I have undertaken to do all in our power to preserve the fabric of this ancient establishment. It is a trust that we have kept for years. Who do you think refurbished the place after the fire? Who cares for the graveyard? Who maintains everything about St Jude’s?’ He spoke with what I was sure was genuine passion. ‘In our view, allowing such a hallowed place to turn into a cross between a soup kitchen and a kindergarten is detrimental and we can put a stop to it.’

I could imagine Tim’s throat in full bobble. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘We shall certainly see the bishop,’ Malins informed him. ‘And we shall tell the media what we’re doing. You’ll see who the public support.’

Tim’s voice again, getting higher and more strained: ‘It isn’t a matter of public support or even the bishop’s support. It’s a matter of doing God’s will.’

‘As interpreted by a pimply youth who calls himself Father and dresses like a Catholic priest? I don’t think so! And nor will others.’ I hadn’t realised that there was a faction against young Tim. If he could irritate someone like me who found so much to like in him, it was hardly surprising that he’d got up hierarchical noses. But this seemed serious – serious enough to put another young man’s life at risk. Malins’ voice rose in proportion with his anger.

‘Mr Malins!’ Andy kept calm but even from where I sat I could hear the steel in his rebuke.

‘Ask him why there’s no congregation worth speaking of! Ask him what’s happened to the choir. Ask him why there’s been a mass exodus to other churches. Ask him why we may have to deconsecrate some of the churches in the benefice! He can’t lead his flock, all he can do is bleat at them in the most tedious of sermons. He’s a waste of space!’

There was a terrible silence. Tang’s hand hovered
in mid-air, as if he didn’t dare break the silence by so much as a click of plastic on wood. What did he make of it? It must be like being a small child whose parents were having a row: he didn’t know the words, but the sounds were angry and threatening. I took his spare hand, squeezed it reassuringly, and managed a smile. If anyone could tear holes in that tissue of prejudice, Andy could.

Surely.

‘We are not discussing the performance or otherwise of your parish priest, gentlemen. And if we were, I would not listen to you until you could moderate your language and demonstrate the truth of what you are saying.’

Good on you!

‘Meanwhile, let us return to the question before us: what do we do with the young man who has availed himself of the age old
custom
of sanctuary?’

‘We keep him here until we can hear from his lips what he has – or hasn’t – done!’

‘That may take some time, Tim, but it’s the option I personally favour. Then, if it’s clear he has deliberately committed a crime, we must insist he hands himself over to the police. The Church has never been in the business of protecting malefactors. What we need is an interpreter.’

‘Mrs Welford has a contact –’ Tim began.

‘One of her fancy men? Surely we can do better than that,’ Malins sneered.

Andy’s turn. ‘And would your choice be honest, trustworthy and discreet?’

‘Would Josie Welford’s paramour be?’

Tang was peering at my face like a puppy who knows his owner is upset. I smiled, determined to convince him that I wasn’t both furiously angry and deeply hurt.

‘Josie is a good woman!’ came Tim’s furious voice.

‘More like the woman of Samaria, if you ask me!’

Andy’s voice again. ‘And it was she, and not Nicodemus, who listened to Christ’s words and spread the good news.’

‘Oh, good news isn’t the only thing Josie puts around, believe me!’

Many years ago, I had cursed Nick Thomas. It was a Romany curse, ill-wishing him for sending my Tony down for the last time. Life hadn’t exactly been kind to Nick himself since then, and I often lay awake wondering to what extent I’d been responsible for his suffering. That was one of the factors that stopped me stepping forward now, and repeating the performance. The other was the company – visible and Invisible. Should I simply step into their circle and see what effect that had on my accusers, or let the other men defend me?

Andy spoke very sternly. ‘I will not listen to you! You have denigrated the skills of your priest, and now you assassinate the character of a good friend to this congregation. Leave this place immediately.
And before you present yourself for Communion again, study the advice in the Prayer Book. Good day to you, gentlemen.’

There was the sound of chairs being pushed back.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this, young man!’ Corbishley’s threat came as a hiss. It was transformed into a gasp as he strode out of the Lady Chapel and realised that Tang was not alone.

Would he offer an apology? He turned on his heel and approached us as if he might. But as he came within range, he leaned forward and, his spittle flying on to my face, declared, ‘Listeners never hear any good of themselves – do they?’

Quite inadvertently, as I flinched, I turned the other cheek. But I said, as quietly as I could, ‘And I suppose you are fitted to throw the first stone?’

I suppose it was better manners than cursing. But it turned him a purplish-red, and I was afraid for a moment he would have a heart attack. As for Malins, he went greenish grey.

I didn’t let my gaze drop.

Tony had instilled into me that in the face of criticism or hostility I should never betray my feelings. I was to remain calm, my face impassive, trying not to let my breathing speed up. Keeping the outward and visible under control, he said, would help with the inward and private. I’d used the technique with success time and time again during police questioning or in the witness box. I never
thought I’d have to use it in circumstances like this.

The church wardens gave one more apoplectic glare apiece and stomped off. After the slam of the heavy door, you could feel the silence.

There was a sudden scurry.

Tim had gone. And where was Tang? Andy was turning tail and dragging open the church door, as fast as he could. I followed, my adrenaline taking longer to flow but at last unlocking torpid limbs.

Tim brought Tang down in a rugby tackle just inside the lychgate. Andy gathered them both up, propelling them back towards me to be shooed back inside and cosseted.

‘He knows he’s got us into some sort of trouble,’ I said, holding him tightly and patting his back. All I could feel was bones. ‘You should have seen him while Corbishley and Malins were ranting.’

Tim might have been grinding his teeth, he looked so angry. As for Andy, he had disappeared into the kitchen, and soon emerged with mugs, which he parked on a chair. Nodding almost apologetically, he withdrew to the Lady Chapel.

Still holding Tang, I stretched out an arm to include Tim. I ached with pity for him. During his tenure as priest in charge, he’d done his very best with limited experience and probably sketchy support, and now he’d got that sort of criticism.

As for me, I’d never had a best to do as far as men were concerned. I’d embraced the menopause
as an opportunity to enjoy a side of life denied me for thirty-odd years. I saw my no strings sex as simply a source of pleasure, and while I’d never made a song and dance about my choice, had never made any particular effort to keep it quiet. Now it had blown back into my face. I must learn to live with it.

Tim, on the other hand, had learned that in some people’s eyes he had failed not in his career, but in his calling. Tony would have told him he’d had a learning experience (wherever had the old devil picked up such lingo?) and that he was young enough to benefit from it.

As for Tang, he had done his best to save us from further internecine strife, even at the risk of his own life: he was the hero of the moment and somehow I must tell him so. Pushing away from them, I embarked on a complicated little mime Marcel Marceau would have applauded, telling him he was kind, but mustn’t do it again. How much did he take in? He was as inscrutable as any clichéd Chinaman.

Andy came back into the nave as we were in the middle of our group hug. He might have been about to join us, but there was another knock at the door. This time it was Annie, who had somehow laid hands on a huge quantity of paper and fat felt pens and what looked like a Chinese-English dictionary.

‘I don’t know whether it’s the right sort of Chinese,’ she apologised, ‘but it’s the best Taunton
Oxfam can do. The other thing is, perhaps he can draw pictures to convey what made him come here.’

They withdrew to what had become Tang’s corner, close to both the altar and the Calorgas heater.

‘Do you think we could switch off the
wall-heaters
to save the church some money?’ Tim ventured. Did he think that would appease the church wardens?

‘It won’t be the church paying: it’ll be me,’ I said. ‘And I like my warmth, thanks very much.’

‘You’re being very generous,’ Andy began. His throat moved as convulsively as Tim’s. This wasn’t going to be an easy five minutes for either of us, was it?

‘It seems to me that my being here isn’t helping Tang’s cause,’ I said briskly. ‘If I go back to the White Hart, I shall be able to give Nigel Ho another shout. Now, in that little kitchen you’ll find there’s pasta sauce for an army, and plenty of pasta. Salad to go with it – I’ve already washed it, so there’s no need to venture out again – and a jar of dressing. There’s cheese and fresh bread for afters.’ It was some of the local cheese for which the White Hart was justly renowned, but let them discover the quality for themselves. ‘And you could open a market stall with all the fruit you’ve acquired. I wasn’t sure about wine? In church?’ I held up a corkscrew by way of temptation.

Andy took the corkscrew from my hand and his
cue from my neutral tone. ‘Bring it on!’ He added,
sotto voce
, ‘You’re not going to let a couple of unpleasant old men get to you?’

‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I shall be trying to find out exactly why something I said got to them.’

Half of me wanted to hurtle into Taunton to check the local paper for references to Malins and Corbishley. But reason told me that if they had done anything I could get an angle on, they wouldn’t have gone public with it. If they had, they wouldn’t still be pillars of the church, rigid with respectability. The other half was reminded, by the sight of all the walkers consuming lunchtime bar snacks, the only food on offer on Mondays, that I hadn’t had my constitutional for a couple of days. Obviously I’d been otherwise engaged yesterday, and Saturdays were now so busy that all three of us chefs worked throughout the day to prepare for the hordes descending on the new dining room, once the foetid snug.

As part of the refurbishments, I had emptied an old store room, known locally as the landlord’s sheep shagging den, and refurnished it as a new snug for the regulars, complete with genuine old furniture from a country inn newly become a chic holiday residence used perhaps three weeks a year.
The same fate would almost certainly have befallen the White Hart had I not stepped in. My changes might not have pleased all the locals, but at least, once their excruciatingly painful old settles were
in situ
, some were grudgingly prepared to admit that a clean, warm bar, serving a wide range of locally grown food, was better than no pub at all.

I had had their old haunt completely gutted, and slung out the cast iron and plastic furniture, too tatty even to keep for use in the beer garden. I replaced it with even older, but beautiful, serviceable, elegant furniture – a couple of George II tables, for instance, which had been ridiculously cheap just because they were the wrong George. The result was a gratifying influx of older clients, the sort who came on time, chose fine wines, and left quietly at a sensible hour. To the bemusement of the old codgers, their new territory was rapidly being colonised by a highly profitable wine bar clientele. But not even for all their crisp tenners and the pleasure of their televisual faces would I apply for a late licence: my reluctant neighbours deserved to sleep at night. As did the children in what had once been B and B rooms. And me, come to think of it.

As the bar emptied, I resolved to take a walk, despite the vicious wind. A static week always saw the scales creeping up again, and that wasn’t part of my plan at all. Since Nick was disinclined to exercise without company, I popped up to his room
and told him to get his boots too. He hushed me with an admonitory finger.

‘Come and look at this – quick!’ he hissed, pointing at the television.

I sat heavily beside him.

There was St Jude’s, slap in the middle of the regional lunchtime news.

Tim and Andy stood beside a pretty but
frozen-looking
reporter, the shot framed by the lychgate.

‘Father Martin, many of your parishioners are up in arms about your decision to harbour an illegal immigrant accused of a serious crime—’

Andy stepped in. ‘You are misinformed. There is no evidence that Mr Tang is an illegal immigrant or that he has committed any crime whatsoever.’

‘But, Father Martin, it’s clear that your parishioners don’t approve of what you’re doing.’

Tim said, ‘For every parishioner who has doubts, there is another who supports me. You only have to look inside the church—’

‘Which you won’t let us do!’

‘— to see how much has been done to make our visitor feel comfortable,’ Andy cut in again suavely. ‘Father Martin has the absolute support of the senior clergy in the diocese in offering our hospitality to this unfortunate young man. Thank you.’ He smiled with finality, and withdrew into the churchyard, tucking his arm into Tim’s as if companionably, but in actual fact more or less dragging him, I suspected.

Unfortunately his handsome face was replaced by Geoffrey Malins’ grim facial contours. Presumably time ran out, for we were returned to the studio almost at once. Back in the studio, the newscaster promised updates in the early evening slot.

‘Just what we needed,’ Nick said.

I hadn’t realised he intended to be part of the support team, but wouldn’t deter him by pointing this out.

‘No doubt it’ll hit all the national networks tonight. And then the newspapers. Well, if he is here illegally, and the people smugglers who brought him here didn’t know where he was before, they’ll know now. Not good, Josie. Get him to give himself up now. Not that being in custody will guarantee his safety, as I’m sure you know.’

On impulse I asked, ‘Would you come with me to St Jude’s and discuss it with them?’

‘Glad to. We could always walk there?’

‘Bit of a step. And maybe this is urgent?’

He nodded, pulling himself to his feet and shrugging on his windproof. He jiggled his car keys. ‘Yours or mine?’

A voice came from below. ‘Josie – you’ve got a visitor!’

‘OK, Robin – I’m on my way!’ Business, presumably: my friends used the back door, which led to my apartment. So why couldn’t Robin deal with him? Mildly irritated, I ran down to investigate.

And found myself face to face with a large bunch of flowers. William Corbishley was on the far side.

‘Mrs Welford. Josie. You have every right to throw me out and these with me. What we – what
I
– said and did this morning was outrageous. Unforgivable. I can’t expect you to forgive or forget, but I hope you will. I’m very sorry.’

There was a long pause. I could hear Nick’s breathing behind me. The colour pumped in Corbishley’s face. He’d made an effort that was probably putting his heart at risk.

I ought to say or do something.

Make ’em laugh; make ’em cry; but make ’em wait!
Not a Tony original, I knew. But it might have been.

I didn’t take the flowers. ‘You might have angered and insulted me,’ I began, ‘but you did it in spades to Father Martin. He is your parish priest, Mr Corbishley – a man of the cloth, who deserves your love and respect.’

His colour deepened alarmingly.

Hoping he wouldn’t have an attack and die on my premises, I nonetheless continued. ‘He may not be the greatest preacher in the world, but that will come with time. He may be tactless, sometimes, but that’s because he’s young and has high ideals. People of our generation should support him, assist him. If we criticise, it must be kindly, face to face, in private – never, ever, viciously behind his back, and especially not in public.’ I paused for breath.
‘Have you any idea how dangerous going to the media may be?’

‘It’s – it’s—’

‘Now,’ I said, smiling for the first time, but with nothing like friendship, ‘I’m quite prepared to accept your apology, but the place for those flowers is St Jude’s.’ For some reason he snorted, but I pressed on, overriding whatever he’d meant to say. ‘Why don’t you go along and make your peace with Father Martin and the dean? Mr Thomas and I will be along in a few minutes.’

I backed him out of the door, closing it quietly, and turned to Nick. ‘Just leave me on my own a few moments, will you? I want to shout and swear and kick and—’

‘You’d do better to get your Barbour and boots: the media aren’t going to go away, you know.’

We opted for Nick’s 4x4, not a vehicle I would have chosen myself, but useful, I had to concede, for his job, which involved travelling lanes best described as tracks, and tracks best described as traces. He always drove well, much better than I, though surprisingly fast in lanes I tended to creep through. At last he pulled up about a mile from St Jude’s.

He broke his silence. ‘Let’s take that footpath that skirts the village and brings us to the back of the graveyard. I always like seeing before we’re seen.’

Even as we creaked our way over a stile about an
inch too high for my legs, a BBC van shot past us. I allowed myself a short sharp swear-word. I’m sure Tony, who had wholeheartedly disapproved of foul language, in spite, or possibly because, of spending so much time in an environment where it was more or less compulsory, would have forgiven me. Because I employed young people, and because of the kids now living on the premises, I tried to maintain a no-swearing policy in the pub. It surprised a lot of people, it being generally thought that good chefs can’t boil an egg without seasoning it with the F word. It was probably a waste of effort, because even our sheltered village kids now used it as freely as manufacturers put salt in their crisps.

‘You handled that Corbishley situation very well,’ he conceded, helping me down.

‘Thanks. But maybe I should have been more gracious, more accommodating.’

‘What specifically did he have to apologise for?’

‘Calling me a whore – though he didn’t actually use that word, as I recall. But that’s how he thinks of me.’ I wished I could manage more than a mutter, but it was the first time we’d ever spoken openly about sex in any context. It had been a tacit agreement that we were strictly friends. OK, more a tacit acceptance on his part of my decision.

‘You’re a free agent, Josie. You can do what you like, when you like and with whom you like. Same as I can.’

I was intrigued. What was he about to confess? He had plenty of opportunity to meet women, his job taking him all over southern England, with lots of overnight stops. If he was courting, I’d have to take him in hand – spruce him up even more.

Meanwhile I continued uncontroversially, ‘So do you think Tim Martin will accept the flowers and the apology?’

‘I don’t know, Josie. I certainly don’t see how a vicar can work effectively knowing his church wardens respect him so very little. After a while there’ll have to be a quiet resignation on grounds of health or something.’

‘You think the
wardens
will go? Not Tim?’

‘The church isn’t into conflict, is it? First I see Tim mysteriously transferred to a new parish, probably something inner-city, with lots of “challenges”. But they can’t keep Malins and Corbishley in place, and risk having them treat a new incumbent the same.’

I nodded, but came to a sharp halt. ‘Wow! It’s a good job you brought us this way, Nick: look at that lot!’

Vans, satellite dishes, a seethe of unsuitably dressed young women. All whippet thin, no doubt.

Nick permitted himself a word or two I rather envied. ‘Bloody circus,’ he concluded.

‘And it’s all Malins’ and Corbishley’s doing,’ I added. ‘I wish I’d told him to stick his flowers where the sun doesn’t shine.’

‘You were both firm and gracious,’ he insisted. Before I could argue he set off downhill from our vantage point, the only problem being the much bigger, steeper hill that awaited us.

As I panted to catch up with him, he said, ‘Imagine deciding to put a church up here. All the building materials to be dragged up. Every last bit of wood and stone.’

‘And imagine how many people have died down in the village because of the graves polluting their water supply. Shades of Haworth.’

Our entry into the graveyard and then the church did not go unnoticed, of course. Even as I was bashing the Morse knocks on the door, familiar faces were charging through the lychgate. Not just familiar from the TV set, familiar as regular patrons of the White Hart. It was a good job it was Monday, or the dining room would have been heaving with them that evening, all asking questions I had no intention of answering, despite their usual extravagant choices of food and wine. Robin was rostered for the bar tonight: I’d prime him to play mum.

There was no sign of Malins, Corbishley or any flowers. Andy looked as if he might have been trying to take a nap, while Tang and Tim played another game of chess. There was a residual smell of food; unwashed plates lay in a neat heap by the door. I tutted. Surely there’d been enough water in the urn to wash them?

Deduction or accusation? ‘No Annie?’

‘Hospital appointment. She didn’t want to go but since she’d waited three months we made her,’ Tim said, sacrificing a pawn to give the information.

‘That’s a pity. She seemed to be able to communicate better than anyone else and Nick here needs to talk to Tang. Nick Thomas, Andy – sorry, I’ve forgotten your surname. And are you known by it, or by the name of your diocese?’

‘That’s for bishops,’ he smiled. ‘Andy Braithwaite. But Andy’s quite enough. Hello, Nick.’

As the men shook hands, I added, ‘Nick – he’s one of the St Faith and St Lawrence bell-ringers – was in the police force and now works for the Food Standards Agency. He’s got a take on Tang you ought to hear, and we all need to understand.’

Tim sprang to his feet. ‘I know what he’ll say! He’ll say we should hand him over to the police. He’s bound to!’ He ended on something perilously like a sob.

Nick turned. ‘Hi, Father Martin.’ He shook his hand firmly, laying the left on top to maintain the contact. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. But not because I believe in Law and Order at all costs. It’s because of the folk who are after him. Probably,’ he conceded. He repeated what he’d said to me. ‘And although one can’t guarantee his safety in custody, I suspect he’ll be a lot safer than here.’

Andy nodded. Possibly with relief at being spared another night camping out.

Nick pressed on. ‘At the very least talk to the police: someone senior. I’m surprised they’re not here yet.’

‘What good will it do when they do come? After all, it’s with Tang they have to talk, not us,’ Tim said. ‘If they find an interpreter who can say he’d be honest and trustworthy? That’s why Josie was trying to get hold of her contact.’

‘To be honest, now that the media have broken the story I don’t think you’ve got any time to play with. You need to get him into a safe house. Now.’

‘Then we’d have to get him out of here first,’ I said.

‘But how?’ Tim continued. ‘He’s liable to arrest the moment he leaves hallowed ground.’

‘I’d offer my own church,’ Andy smiled, ‘but unless he can fly…’

‘Josie’s got a helicopter licence,’ Tim said.

I tried to look diffident and modest; mentally I was trying to work out the logistics of getting to Exeter Airport, borrowing a chopper, finding somewhere to land out of reach of the police, landing on the Deanery lawn and other Loony Tunes adventures. All with poor night vision, of course. Penelope Pitstop? More Josie Jetlag.